Actually Your Housekeeper
by Leafy Seadragon
Summary: When Mrs. Hudson has to leave Baker Street for hip surgery, she gets her distant cousin Basil Williams to act as a housekeeper for Sherlock and John at 221 B Baker Street. Inexperienced and struggling not to be hated by her new employers, Basil has enough on her plate already when Moriarty shows up.
1. Chapter 1

The doorway does not lend me much of a preview as to what I'm getting myself into, but I can see a sliver of Mrs. Hudson as she explains things to her tenants.

"Boys, I've gotten you a housekeeper. My hip needs surgery and I can't leave you here all by yourselves. She's my third cousin, not exactly qualified but the only one who would sign on willingly." Mrs. Hudson gives them as stern a look as she can before continuing. "Please behave nicely."

She exits with a gesture for me to go in and I tentatively slide through the partially open door. Due to a cabinet placed just right I get a good look at the tenants before they see me. The shorter blond man looks rather military despite a _very_ domestic-looking knit sweater. His flat-mate has a cat-like face, thick curly hair, and an expression so deep in thought it's clear he has a formidable IQ and uses it constantly.

Their faces twist with expression when they see me.

My appearance makes a statement, to say the least. I'm not sure if the most distracting bit is the piercings, the disarrayed purple-streaked hair, the heavy eyeliner, or the black outfit.

The first's brow is furrowed fairly low around his eyes, his mouth a bit ajar. He rights himself, clearing his throat, wrinkling his forehead as his eyebrows ascend to form a more ordinary shocked expression. "Well," he clears his throat again, "Nice to meet you. John Watson."

"Basil Williams," I reply, shaking his hand. I don't make the mistake of offering my hand to the second man. His mouth is curled in distaste and his eyes are narrowed. I sigh and scan the room, looking for any clue as to what words I could use to make him less adverse to me. I hate to make a good impression, but my job will be more enjoyable if the tenants don't despise me. "You play the violin often?"

He looks taken aback, like I've preformed some ridiculous trick.

"Blimey, how'd you know that?" John asks.

"Um, there's a violin sitting in the corner. And sorry, but the music stand next to it is situated too high for you…so I guessed it would be his. I was just…I enjoy the violin, hoped I might hear it now and again. Sorry if I've said something rude."

The second man goes to the coatrack and dons a blue scarf. "I'm going to the morgue." He announces in a deep, resonating voice.

John sighs. "I'm sorry, he—"

"No, don't apologize. Some people don't take kindly to strangers, and it kills geniuses to act like normal. I'm grateful he didn't deduce the living daylights out of me right away."

"Ah, so you know about that."

"Mrs. Hudson warned me about Sherlock. She also said something about various body parts in the icebox."

"Wait, you still took the job?"

"Yeah, it was this or taking my clothes off for money."

"Well, that's…"

"It is what it is. Nice meeting you, but I'm going to get to work." I nod politely.

He goes off on whatever business occupies his time and I tour the apartment, compiling a mental list of what needs doing. Most of it is a disorganized mess which just makes me itch all over. The kitchen is the worst. Since I plan to cook for them in there it is the first room I tackle. Chemistry equipment is everywhere, sprawling over any flat surface. Luckily there is a nearly empty cupboard with plenty of shelves for it all. I painstakingly organize it perfectly in rows, making sure the spaces between everything are identical. Next I clean out the fridge and disinfect it thoroughly, putting a severed hand I find into a jar, then inside a plastic container, then in two layers of plastic bags. That disgusting object goes in one of the fridge drawers, on which I post a little note reading _Human Flesh Only. _After that I basically bleach the kitchen.

It smells revolting, but at least it's clean.

When I come back with uncontaminated groceries it still makes me gag, so I light a few candles against my better judgment.

The tenants don't return until I finish cooking supper. Sherlock's grin is dampened the minute he comes through the door. He has a jar filled with eyeballs in one hand. John inhales deeply, "Why does it smell like Christmas?"

"Unfortunate mix of Mrs. Hudson's candles, there weren't enough of any single flavor. You can sit down, dinner's ready."

"You cook? How did you do that, the kitchen's basically a laboratory."

Sherlock frowns, scrunching up his face. He rushes into the kitchen and I hear glass shattering. "John!" he yells. The doctor ambles to the kitchen. "We have to fire her. I don't like her and she's gone too far! Everything is in the cupboard. She bleached every piece of equipment, John, I could tell by her red knuckles!"

"You didn't have to spill the eyes on the floor. Go apologize."

"After what she's done!? Never." The scraping sound of a chair announces him sitting down in a huff.

I walk in, careful not to step on any eyeballs, shooting daggers at Sherlock. John sits down at the table, pinching the bridge of his nose. Each of them is handed a plate.

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock protests childishly.

"That's fine," I answer, sitting at the table with my plate like I don't care. "I can heat it up later when you are."

"Don't be stupid."

"Oh, I'll do my best."

"If you are going to work here you need to control your OCD. Since that's doubtful you'll have to leave. I have things the way I like them and that is how they are going to stay. Mrs. Hudson will help you find other employment of course; she's the only relative you would go to for help because you are convinced she is the only one you think knows you exist. You are right not to go to the others; they apparently don't think you need it. I would assume you have never been diagnosed with OCD or dyslexia, partially because it isn't obvious, and because you had negligent parents. Well off business types I imagine, going by the quality of your jewelry which is several years old. You never stopped wearing it, still trying to be noticed by people who refuse to see you." He finally smiles at me, cheerfully even.

I stare at him, forcing my expression into a docile half-smile. "Your tongue is a wicked instrument, Sherlock. So sharp is must taste metallic."

His grin vanishes.


	2. Chapter 2

The tea tray is slammed on the coffee table in front of John. "Honestly!" I exclaim.

"You look a bit miffed, Basil," he says.

"It is obvious why," Sherlock says from his perch on the back of the sofa.

"If you say you're coming to tea you ought to stay and bloody have it! Or at least stay long enough to drink some!"

"That is not what you're on about," Sherlock counters. "You are trying to be kind and not insult my brother. By all means, go ahead. I'd love to hear what you have to say against him."

"He's mental, asking if I'm one of John's girlfriends! And tentatively at that, like Watson's hit an all-time low!"

John clears his throat, "You know, there have not been that many."

We ignore him. "He's even more rude than you, Sherlock! Worse is that he does it completely on purpose! You just analyze and make sure John knows about people too, or else you wouldn't bother explaining aloud. Mycroft takes advantage." I shove cups of tea into both their hands.

Sherlock takes an experimental sip. "Hmm, much better than the last."

"Thank you. That was this morning."

"Yes," he says. He checks his phone, breaks into an indecent grin, jumps off the sofa, discards the cup, and puts his coat on in a flurry of motion. "Triple homicide, both of you had better come," Sherlock announces gleefully, rushing out the door.

John shares a look with me as we hurry after him.


End file.
